As I listen to the chatter of the pilots through my earpiece, Earth quickly grows in size on the dispy at the front of the troop compartment. I find it’s a familiar sight, and the thought suddenly comes to me. ‘I may have been born here, but this isn’t my home.’ It’s still a gorgeous sight and yet, I’m sad as I look at it. I still can’t believe humanity did this to themselves. To this day, I can’t figure out why they did it. It makes no sense.

  Colonel Garcia breaks me out of my reverie when he says, “Ma’am, I’ve assigned a squad as your guard. Please, stay behind the main formation. I really like my job and would prefer to not be court-martialed for allowing something to happen to you.”

  I grin at him for a moment. “You needn’t worry, Colonel. My spouses would spank me if I took unnecessary risks, and I’d prefer they didn’t.”

  All of the Marines ugh as they imagine their commander being disciplined like a misbehaving child. They know all too well the risks we might be about to face on the surface. Earth is an unfamiliar and, likely, dangerously unpredictable pce.

  As we enter the atmosphere, the drop ship begins to shudder and shake for a moment, then settle back into a smooth ride as psma licks past the viewports from the friction of our descent. Around me, the Marines remain stoic and focused, impatiently waiting for us to nd.

  The pilot announces, “We’re 2 minutes out. Gear up, Marines.”

  Everyone dons their helmets, making them look like humanoid robots, and then perform their final checks on their weapons.

  “Colonel, stun only unless I say so,” I inform Colonel Garcia.

  He merely nods, acknowledging my order, and states over the company comm channel, “You heard the General, set your weapons to stun.”

  The drop ship touches down a half-kilometer from the Vivos xPoint community with a small bump as the nding gear absorbs the impact. The rear hatch hisses open, revealing the lush ndscape of a summer in South Dakota. High grass and wildflowers cover the ground with trees dotting the ndscape here and there.

  I unbuckle my harness and stand, the Marines following suit. Garcia ys his hand on my shoulder, and asks, “Ma’am, please wait.” Most of the troops exit the drop ship and take up tactical positions around the ship, weapons at the ready, scanning the surroundings for any signs of danger while a ptoon gathers several self-infting airlocks just in case we have to cut our way into the bunkers.

  Colonel Garcia gives the all-clear signal, and I step out of the drop ship, my personal guard taking up positions around me. The rest of the Marines fan out in a standard recon formation, moving with practiced precision and efficiency. The only sounds are the wind and the chirping of birds. The sky is cloudy, and the sight before us gives no clue that a camity happened here a century ago.

  We make our way toward the Vivos xPoint community, wading through knee-high grass. The structures come into view - a rge cluster of concrete domes, overgrown with grass, vines, and moss. I have high hopes that we’ll find people here. After all, there are 575 bunkers, so surely we’ll find some alive.

  The company spreads out, checking the area in and around the bunkers for any dangers. When they find none, they spread out around the bunker we choose as our first attempt. Colonel Garcia beats on the door with his armored fist, which echoes loudly. We wait several minutes and receive no response. The colonel again hammers on the door, cranks up the amplification, and yells, “Terran Marines! We’re here to help!”

  Again, we wait. No response. A sense of unease starts to settle over me as I watch the Marines attach the airlock. They work efficiently, sealing it around the bunker entrance. Once it's secure, they begin the process of cutting through the thick metal door.

  The whine of the psma cutter fills the air, sparks flying as it slices through the reinforced barrier. It feels like an eternity, but finally, the door falls inward with a resounding cng. The Marines tense, weapons at the ready, but only silence greets us from the dark interior.

  Colonel Garcia signals for the ptoon to enter. They activate their suit lights, illuminating the bunker's entrance as they cautiously step inside, scanning for any signs of life or danger. I follow close behind with my guards fnking me.

  The air inside is stale and heavy with the scent of dust and decay. Our footsteps echo in the emptiness as we venture deeper into the bunker. The Marines' lights pierce the gloom, revealing a corridor that stretches out before us, and I can't shake the growing sense of unease settling in my gut. Something feels off, like a lingering presence just out of sight. The silence is oppressive, broken only by the soft hum of equipment and the occasional comment of the Marines on the comms.

  We reach the end of the corridor and find ourselves in a rge, open space to what must have been the bunker's main living area. Dust-covered furniture lies scattered about, remnants of a life long abandoned. The Marines fan out, their lights sweeping over every corner, every shadow.

  “General, over here,” Colonel Garcia calls out, his voice tight with tension. I make my way over to him to see 5 mummified bodies lying there. The rgest holds a pistol in its hand. I bend down and check the bodies. The 3 children have bullet holes in the back of their heads, another, who I assume to be their mother, has two in her chest and one in her forehead and the man with the weapon has one in his temple.

  I sigh over the comms and sadly murmur, “He killed them and then himself. Did they run out of supplies?”

  Garcia asks, “Has anyone checked their supplies?”

  Someone replies, “Yes, Sir. They have plenty. It looks like they have more than 50 years worth of survival meals.”

  Garcia gnces in my direction, not that he can see anything since we’re all wearing our helmets. “Then they probably contracted the virus. Rather than let them suffer, he killed them,” I state.

  The next 47 shelters are much the same. Empty or the occupants died after taking their own lives or starving to death after they ran out of supplies.

  At the 49th shelter, we repeat the same thing, someone hammers on the door and announces who we are. This time, a speaker crackles to life asking, “What do you want?”

  I step forward, my heart pounding with a mix of excitement and trepidation. “We're here to help,” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady. “We're from the Terran Federation. We’ve returned to find survivors and offer assistance.”

  There's a long pause, the silence stretching out uncomfortably. Then, the voice crackles through the speaker again, sounding wary and uncertain. “How do we know you're telling the truth? How do we know this isn't some kind of trick to steal our supplies?”

  I gnce at Colonel Garcia, who gives me a small nod of encouragement. “Your caution is warranted,” I say, choosing my words carefully. "But we truly are here to help. I can’t prove it to you, so you’ll just have to trust us.”

  Another pause, longer this time. I can almost feel the confusion and fear in his voice as he responds, “I’ve never heard of a Terran Federation, and I can’t open the door. It would kill my family.”

  “Sir, we have a portable airlock with us. We’ll attach it, and give you the vaccine for the virus. Please, I promise we’re here to help you.”

  There's a long, tense silence. I hold my breath, hoping the man will accept our offer of assistance. The seconds tick by, feeling like an eternity.

  Finally, the speaker crackles to life once more. “Alright,” the man says hesitantly. “We'll let you attach your airlock. I’m going to be armed though, and if this is some kind of trick...”

  I’m not worried about his weapon. If they are the same as when we left Earth, then it’ll not penetrate our armor. “Sir, I’m General Alice Reeves and I give my word, it's not,” I assure him, relief washing over me. “We are only here to help. Please open the door when I tell you we’ve attached the airlock.”

  The Marines move forward, efficiently setting up the portable airlock. They work with practiced ease, sealing it around the bunker entrance. Once it's secured, they give me the signal. I step into the airlock with Colonel Garcia, a medic, and my guards. The door hisses shut behind us, and the psma field descends through the airlock making my skin tingle as it passes over me.

  After it cycles, I say, “Sir you can open the door now. It’s safe.”

  There's a moment of tense anticipation, then the door slowly opens. I raise my hands to reassure him and step through the door. Colonel Garcia, the medic, and my guards follow my example.

  As we step into the bunker, I find myself face to face with a man who appears to be in his early fifties. He's gaunt, with a wary look in his eyes as he points a pistol at us with shaking hands. Behind him, I can see a woman and two children huddled together, their faces filled with a mix of fear and hope. I slowly remove my helmet, revealing my face to them. “It's alright,” I say softly, keeping my hands raised. “We're not here to harm you. We truly want to help.”

  The man's eyes widen as he takes in my appearance, and his grip on the gun falters slightly. “You're... you're just a kid,” he whispers, disbelief evident in his voice.

  I offer him a gentle smile and softly chuckle. “No, Sir, I’m not. I’m actually 134 years old.” I offer my hand, and say, “I’m General Reeves and we’re pleased to meet you.”

  Hesitantly, he lowers his pistol, transfers it to his offhand, and takes mine. “Bob… Bob Jackson.” He turns slightly and gestures to his family. “This is my wife, Marie, and our kids, Kevin and Sally.”

  I smile a little bigger. “I’m pleased to meet you all… Well, how would you all like to be vaccinated against the virus?”

  They all nod enthusiastically. I wave the medic forward. He removes his helmet and smiles at them. “Hello. I’m Staff Sergeant Moore. I’m a medic with the Terran Marines.” He removes his backpack, searches through it for a few seconds, and then removes an injector. Setting down his backpack, he approaches Bob, touches the injector to his neck, and it hisses when he triggers it. Then he does the same for his family.

  After he injects the youngest, Sally, he tells them, “In an hour, you’ll be able to go outside. Are any of you hurt?”

  Bob shakes his head and then says, “No, we’re fine other than we’ve not had much to eat since we’ve been trying to stretch our supplies.”

  Moore nods and looks at the Colonel. “Sir, can we spare some meal packs?”

  Colonel Garcia nods and they are handed what is probably the first decent meal they’ve had in a while. The meal packs aren’t the best, but they taste good enough and are fairly high calorie. They waste no time in tearing into them. By the way they act, you’d think we gave them filet mignon.

  As they eat, I ask, “Bob, do you know how many survivors there are here?” He doesn’t stop eating but nods his head. “Great. Would you be willing to help us convince them of our intentions?” He merely nods again. “Perfect. Enjoy your meal. If any of you would like more, just ask.”

  I turn to Colonel Garcia. “Contact the Bellona. Have them send down relief teams. Housing, food, medical, the works.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” he replies and takes a few steps away as he transmits my orders.

  It takes three days, but we end up rescuing 983 people. Some of them wouldn’t have allowed us to help without Bob’s assistance. The next order of business is to process them. By that, I mean nano interrogation. The nanos attach themselves to the prefrontal cortex, making the person incapable of lying. The interrogation is 3 simple questions. Question 1: are you a member of HOTE? Question 2: do you know of anyone who is? Question 3: have you ever stolen anyone's supplies?

  Thankfully, all of the people here aren’t members, don’t know anyone who is, and never stole supplies. Afterward, we apologize for the necessity of doing it, but when we expin, they understand. Even so, a few are still upset that we’d do that. I can’t say as I bme them, but it’s a necessary indignity. I can’t allow a single member of HOTE to be free to do something simir again.

  When we find any, they’ll be detained until we have the time to put them on trial, and then throw them into a biopod and rewrite their personality. The Federation Council made it a capital crime to be a member of HOTE, so this is all legal.

  During the interrogations, a construction squad is nded in a fair-sized city located about 150 kilometers from the Gulf Coast in what used to be Texas. They seed the pce with eater Nanos, which breaks everything down into base resources. Then pce the resource stacks where needed and sprinkle builder nanos on the stacks. A few weeks ter, they have it complete with a water source. They pce a small fusion generator outside of the city and hook it up to the grid to power everything, and voi, we have a city ready to house 5,000 people.